Suddenly, the smell of coffee hit - sharp, bitter, mixed with a slick chill rising from the humming equipment. The camera grew heavy in my grip, pulled tight against me whenever noise pressed too close. Heat lingered on the glass, constant between my hands - a tiny anchor while the world tilted sideways. That day began quietly, wrestling faulty gears beneath shaky bulbs, watching sunlight drag shadows across gray floors. This workshop pushed back when nothing else did, carved shape out of mess - until my father said something, tone dull, each word cracking the stillness apart.
"I'm engaged."
Silence snapped into place. The camera strap bit into my fingers, knuckles tightening on their own. Noise drained out - the greasy air, little clinks of steel, distant engines humming - vanishing one by one, like sounds lost behind a wall. Heart slamming beneath flesh, lungs stuck mid-draw. A twist built inside, near the hips, equal parts surprise and irritation.
Quiet fell like dust settling. Then a soft knock broke the stillness - the workshop door easing open just enough. After that, nothing else mattered but the figure standing there.
A shape that seemed to take up space before speaking. The jacket draped close, tailored so sharp it whispered authority. Not one thread dared loosen on his dark hair, neat as a rule book. Yet those eyes - still, calculating, already seeing past words I never spoke. A weight stayed on his shoulders, heavy in the quiet that stretched between us. Up came a knot inside me, sharp and silent.
A flash of smile caught the edge of his lips - cold, quick, like frost splitting stone. Not warmth there. Just tension. The silence grew thick, vibrating in the space where words should be.
Frozen in place, Sierra paused halfway through her step. Lincoln stayed put, fingers tucked into his coat pockets. Not a break in rhythm - Dad just went on speaking, tone light as if blind to the quiet building around him. She squinted a little, watching the man filling the entrance. Same strong chin as her father, though nothing of that jittery manner. A silence hung, just long enough to feel it in your ribs. One clap cracked the air - Dad did it, sudden, without warning. Lincoln's mouth twitched upward, though his gaze stayed flat. From Sierra came a narrow breath out of her nostrils, steady, like she was counting seconds. Beneath his feet, the carpet showed dents, strands pressed down, worn into place
Frozen drops down the spine. So it felt when he spoke - sharp, quick, like a slap out of nowhere. Never a buddy. Nope, nothing close to a coworker either. Certainly no shared DNA between us. Only linked by that one messy marriage before. A small smile tugged at my mouth, just for show, though it faded fast. My throat felt stiff as I looked at the piece of metal in my palms. Cold against touch. Streaks of oil marked my hand. Focus anywhere else before meeting his eyes once more. There he stood, acting like he had every right to be.
There he was, scanning the room until his gaze stopped right at me. Then a tilt of his chin, slow - as if weighing colors on a canvas. The smile widened afterward.
Could have been tools. Or lenses. Hard to tell. He spoke low, each word dragging like stone on gravel. Not quite a query. More like a dare dressed up as kindness.
"I'm… both," I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. "Mostly a photographer, though. I see the world through my lens, not your wallet."
Here we go. The worn-out line about cash being worthless, once more. Sounded harsher than I felt inside. Underneath, a knot churned - part wonder, part irritation, half-expecting trouble to show up.
His eyebrows lifted, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Ah, the defiant one. Good. I like someone with spirit."
A pull deep in my chest. Was this - actual approval from him? First thought: a lie dressed up, mockery tucked between syllables. But then something clearer cut through - the heat spreading beneath my ribs carried no trace of disdain.
A noise slipped out before I shifted my weight, gaze stuck on the object in hand. Just not at his face. Definitely not about the nearness he brought while staying just away, the way quiet moments threatened walls I thought were solid.
Laughter bounced off the walls while Dad smiled, missing the heavy silence stretching across our faces. Out came his voice - talking about meals for all, bright but strained, laced with do right, stay calm. Each phrase dropped slow, like stones skimming frozen ponds
Out there on the edge of speaking, my words caught fire but never left. Legs tensed to bolt, gaze primed to snap - yet a stiff nod broke through instead. The camera gripped hard in my hand, knuckles pale, holding something down.
Later, light crept slow across oil-stained floors. Lincoln wandered without asking, hands skimming tools like he belonged, gaze darting between pistons and gauges, grinning at nothing - each twitch of his mouth tightening something inside me. We locked eyes too often, shocks sparking down my arms, nothing to do with cold air slipping through the garage entrance.
Midday cracked, and the pretending gave out. Slipped the camera into its case, wiped oily hands down denim, walked out where breath didn't stick. Leaned against the hood - Dad's truck steady under palm - as glare jumped wild from metal, fierce like shattered bottles catching sun. Then he appeared, drawn by quiet that had started talking.
There, near the car, he stayed still, hands buried in his coat. Instead of a smile, just a small shift of his chin spoke first - something calm had settled behind his eyes. His voice took its time: It seems you've chosen space over closeness.
With arms folded tight, I acted like his presence didn't matter. "Staying away? Not at all - just enjoying how the sun feels right now."
"Uh-huh." He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. "Because staring at me all morning would've been too much for you?"
I laughed - a sharp, bitter sound. "You think very highly of yourself, don't you?"
"Not highly enough," he said, grinning. "But maybe enough to keep you on your toes."
Him, I aimed to ignore completely. Part of me managed that much. Yet underneath, some shadowed corner kept stirring whenever he showed up again. Light hitting his hair at odd angles. The way he occupied space without effort. Even the sound of him speaking - somehow these things nudged a pulse beneath my ribs, rising too fast to stop.
Midnight shadows stretched long across the floorboards that evening. With Mom's engagement settled, the living room pulled us together like magnets - eyes meeting Lincoln's sent silent sparks into the air. Quietly, Ruby drifted from corner to corner, steady as a breeze shaping smoke. As Dad fumbled attempts to link me and the boy now tied by future vows. Every word hung just slightly too long.
Slumped low in his chair, Lincoln didn't look away once as Dad kept talking. With every reply I gave, that smile of his stretched a little more - patient, like he already knew everything. Light from the candles flickered over the table, flashing against the edge of my glass at odd angles. The smell of roast chicken hung thick, laced with garlic, pulling at my stomach despite how much I tried to block it out. Each mouthful turned heavier under his quiet stare.
Leaning forward, Lincoln placed his palms flat on his thighs. Out of nowhere, the topic shifted to cameras. He wondered aloud about my usual subjects - landscapes tucked beyond roads? Human expressions caught mid-breath? Gears spinning inside old devices? A flicker danced in his eyes, sharp but unclear. Not quite excitement, not exactly wonder. Tough to pin down.
I lifted my chin, determined not to show any hint of fluster. "People. Emotions. Moments you can't get back. Cars, too, sometimes, if they're interesting."
"Interesting," he repeated, like tasting the word slowly. "I like that. Maybe I'll get a private shoot someday. You can photograph me winning a race."
I almost choked on my water. "Winning? You talk a lot for someone who hasn't even been properly introduced yet."
A sound rose from his chest - thick, warm, like sunlight soaking into wet stone. It pulled at something behind my lungs, deeper than it should have. Then came the words, slow: talking too much, he said, for someone hiding behind glass
I narrowed my eyes. "It's not hiding. It's perspective. Something you might not understand."
"Oh, I understand plenty," he said, leaning back with that infuriating smirk. "I understand you're stubborn. Independent. Smart. And… maybe a little curious about me."
A tightness climbed into my throat. Not words, but a push against silence - how badly I wanted to scream he got it wrong, completely wrong. Then the shake started again, sharp like before, pulling two opposite wants: crush his neck, pull him near, all tangled inside one breath.
Dinner ended with stiff smiles, quiet talk. As Lincoln mentioned walking me to the door when it was time to leave, something clenched inside - nearness came fast, stripped bare of others' voices crowding the air.
Morning talk?" he asked, lifting his shoulders as if the whole thing meant little.
Maybe, I answered, quieter than I planned. Out they came, ahead of my thoughts.
A smile crept slowly over his lips, fingertips brushing the rim of my chair. The unspoken word lingered, thick between us - his tone soft - he wasn't leaving. Nothing moved after that
Gravel cracked under each step, the camera bumped my thigh, my heartbeat pulsed so hard it shook my jaw - I named it irritation. Labeled it restlessness. Insisted it didn't mean more.
Midnight. Still staring at the ceiling, his grin stuck on repeat, that unblinking gaze - steady, knowing - and pretending fell apart. Heat rose, anger first - but underneath it, a different pulse. Clear now: caught. Didn't matter if I agreed.
Finding myself stuck between choices that won't bend. Sometimes silence speaks louder than answers ever could.
This tangled, frustrating pull - right now - started it all.